Rated PG-13
The time is out of joint: O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!
-- Hamlet, Act I, Scene 5
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Prologue
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November 29, 1998
11:21 p.m.
At first, I thought Scully was just trying to make conversation.
It wouldn't have been the first time, after all. The two of us
have been whiling away the hours together for nearly six years
now: in rented cars, on airplanes, on stakeouts, sitting in
courtrooms waiting for our turns to testify -- all of the many
and varied situations during which we've been forced to sit idly
by and wait.
In fact, "waiting" had practically become our middle names by
that point. My lips quirked in a smile as I considered that.
Fox Waiting Mulder and Dana Waiting Scully. Most couples, when
they finally say the vows and tie the knot, adopt the same last
name; I found it briefly amusing to consider that if that day
ever came for us, we might be doing it a bit differently.
Not that we were anywhere near such a momentous step forward, I
reminded myself with a sigh. A couple of weeks earlier I'd
actually screwed up my courage to tell Scully that I loved her --
only to be met with a roll of the eyes and an, "Oh, brother."
Disheartening, sure, but not deterring. Which was at least part
of the reason why the two of us were on this lonely desert road
in Nevada in the middle of the night, trying to follow up on yet
another lead from yet another shadowy informant.
I remember wondering if Scully realized that I considered this to
be a date, in an odd sort of way.
"Milepost 134," I'd said, a moment or two earlier. "Two miles to
go."
"I'm all a-tingle," she'd replied dryly. "So, Mulder, this
supposed clandestine source who's contacted you -- how do we know
that he's not just another crackpot whose encyclopedic knowledge
of extraterrestrial life isn't derived exclusively from reruns of
'Star Trek'?"
"Because of where this particular crackpot works," I responded,
laughing lightly. "Groom Lake. Area 51. Where the military has
conducted --"
"-- for the past 50 years, classified experiments involving
extraterrestrial technology," Scully interrupted.
"It's all our questions," I replied, with what I thought was
good-natured intensity. "The proof that we've suspected but
never been able to hold in our hands. That ... that proof is
here."
Scully sighed slightly; in retrospect, I realize I should have
paid closer attention to that sigh. At the time, however, all I
heard was amused exasperation as my partner said, "It's the dim
hope of finding that proof that's kept us in this car, or one
very much like it, for more nights than I care to remember.
Driving hundreds if not thousands of miles through neighborhoods
and cities and towns where people are raising families and buying
homes and playing with their kids and their dogs, and, in short,
living their lives. While we ... we ... we just keep driving."
"What is your point?" I asked, doing my part to advance what I
still thought was idle conversation.
"Don't you ever just want to stop?" Scully asked. "Get out of
the damn car? Settle down and live something approaching a
normal life?"
"This =is= a normal life," I said in surprise.
To my disappointment, Scully fell silent after that, and seemed
to turn her attention to the scenery passing by. I didn't press
the issue, though. It was a beautiful night, Kersh was more than
two thousand miles away, and there were worse ways to pass the
time than sitting quietly in a car with Dana Scully.
Little did I know that I had very little time remaining to enjoy
her company.
"Mulder."
Scully's voice coincided with the appearance of four pairs of
headlights in the distance. I felt tension rise in me and
nodded in acknowledgment as I offered, "I don't know if we're
going to meet that crackpot after all." A few seconds later I'd
braked to a halt; before either of us had time to do or say
anything we found ourselves surrounded by soldiers.
"Out of the car," one of the men ordered. As if to emphasize the
point, one of the others ostentatiously cocked his rifle. "Out
of the car, sir," the soldier repeated, more insistently.
"Ma'am."
From that point, events unfolded with depressing predictability.
In less than a minute we were standing by the roadside, our hands
in the air, while a smarmy-looking man in civilian clothes
examined our identification.
"FBI," he said, not quite rolling his eyes. "You're going to
have to turn around and leave immediately."
"Why?" I asked. "It's a public highway."
"It also borders a U.S. government testing ground," the man
replied. "What's your business here? What are you doing out here
in the middle of the night?"
"What are =you= doing out here?" I countered.
To my surprise, Scully jumped in with questions of her own.
"Hiding top secret test flights? Using technology from UFOs?"
The civilian laughed. "Flying saucers," he mused sarcastically,
stepping closer to me and leaning forward to whisper in my ear.
"I got a top secret for you. There's no such thing as flying
saucers."
"Come on, Mulder," Scully said, resignation coloring her voice.
"Let's --"
At that instant, a bright light appeared on the horizon and
rushed toward us. I barely had time to realize that it was some
sort of aircraft before it was hovering directly overhead. I
felt a tingling all over my body, as if a thousand ants were
crawling across my skin, and the light from the craft blinded me.
My stomach did flip-flops, and suddenly I could no longer feel
the road beneath my feet --
And even more quickly than it had appeared, the craft vanished.
For a few seconds I stood there in the dark and the silence,
blinking furiously, as purple and white splotches of light danced
before my eyes. Gradually, my eyes adjusted to the renewed
darkness, and I felt a chill race down my spine, as I realized
that I was alone. The soldiers, the civilian -- and most
importantly of all, Scully -- had disappeared, seemingly without
a trace.
==========END PROLOGUE==========